Kane- Tooth & Nail

by Mark Allen

  “Turn around and face the wall,” Breezy ordered.

  Kane’s jaw clenched as he slowly followed the instruction. He knew what came next. Time to make his stand.

  Breezy gave the expected command. “Okay, convict. Bend over and spread those cheeks.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Have it your way.” Breezy tucked the cuffs into a pouch on his belt and drew his baton. “Crush him, boys.”

  Kane pushed off the wall as the team lunged forward, riot batons swinging.

  He plowed a fist into Breezy’s gut just below the Kevlar vest. The man grunted and slammed his club into Kane’s upper left arm. Pain ricocheted down the appendage. He lowered his shoulder and slammed it into Breezy’s chest, driving him backward into the others.

  The rest of the team reached around and jabbed with the rounded ends of their batons, thumping Kane on the shoulders. The blows hurt but didn’t incapacitate, and he continued using his size and weight advantage to push Breezy backward.

  But then Breezy managed to swing his baton down low and crack it against the side of Kane’s knee. He lurched, leg buckling, and stumbled like a hamstrung deer.

  It was all the opening they needed.

  They were trained operators. Not at Kane’s level, but they didn’t need to be. They had the advantage of numbers, and once he hit the floor, they quickly overwhelmed him. The batons rained down one vicious blow after another. Naked and weaponless, the best Kane could do was curl up and try to protect his most vulnerable parts.

  He brought his knees up to protect his groin, tucked his chin against his chest to make his face a difficult target, and covered his head with his hands. The batons beat brutal rhythms on his ribs, arms, thighs, and back.

  The beat-down seemed to go on for hours, but Kane knew that was just an illusion. In real-time, it probably lasted less than a minute. Nothing was broken or busted as far as he could tell, but he would be a patchwork of black-and-blue bruises come tomorrow morning.

  At least he was alive.

  For now.

  The team finally stepped back, breathing a little heavy from exertion—pounding the crap out of an innocent man was probably a great cardio workout—and brushing sweat from their brows. The windowless strip room was stifling, and full tactical gear was not conducive to cooling.

  “Damn,” Yippy said. “I need some water.”

  “You mean a beer,” Happy corrected. “First round’s on me.”

  Breezy gave Kane one last good kick in the ribs. “You take a beating good, I’ll give you that. Didn’t even get a yelp out of ya.”

  Kane slowly climbed to his feet, body protesting the pain and punishment it had just suffered. “You want yelps,” he said, “buy a Chihuahua.”

  “Nah,” Breezy replied. “Why would I buy a little rat-dog to kick? I can just come to work every day and kick ratfucks like you.” He pulled some prison clothes off a shelf and tossed them on the floor at Kane’s feet. “Get dressed, and get ready to meet your cellmates.” He chuckled. “You’re about to go from an ass-beating to an ass-reaming.”

  As Kane pulled on the white boxers, white t-shirt, brown socks, khaki pants, khaki shirt, and black composite-toe boots that served as the inmate uniform, he mulled his best course of action moving forward. Tonight’s only mission was to stay alive and avoid getting gang-raped, but by tomorrow morning, he would need to make a play.

  His best option was to somehow get to a phone. With one call to Team Reaper headquarters, he could reach all the way to the President. Less than an hour later, there would be all sorts of heavily-armed warriors on their way to pull him out of here and burn Black Blog Federal Prison to the ground—figuratively, and quite possibly, literally.

  The backup option was to pull off an escape. He was sure it could be done, but he didn’t know how yet. He needed more intel, and he wouldn’t get it until he got inside. The question would be, could he stay alive long enough to gather the information, formulate a plan, and execute it? He could fend off multiple attackers if that was what it came down to, but he was still human. If some gang wanted him dead, they could make it happen through sheer force of numbers—overwhelm him, take him down, and stick him full of shanks. He would take some of them to the grave with him, but that wouldn’t make him any less dead.

  He exited the strip room, and Goatsack tossed him a mesh bag containing extra clothes, towels, and toiletries. “There’s your welcome package, Kane. Time to see your new home. Follow me.”

  He unlocked a door and took Kane down yet another corridor. There was a heavy steel door at the end. Goatsack stopped and keyed his radio. “R&D to Compound, releasing one to D-Unit.”

  “Ten-four,” came the reply in that digitized tone common to all radio traffic. “Send him.”

  Goatsack opened the door and Kane stepped onto the compound, getting his first look at the main part of the prison.

  Walkways ran in all directions, crisscrossing at times, blacktopped paths leading to various buildings. To his left appeared to be some sort of administrative building, followed by the dining hall and the lieutenant’s office, clearly marked by signs above their portals. Scanning left to right, he saw Laundry, Facilities, Education, Commissary, and Chapel.

  Directly in front of him was a guard shack made from brick and heavily-barred glass. A pair of correctional officers, presumably the compound officers Goatsack had radioed moments before, stood on the concrete landing outside the building, thumbs hooked in their duty belts as they eyeballed the latest convict unlucky enough to get thrown into Black Bog Federal Prison.

  Kane’s eyes moved past them. To his right, the ground sloped uphill, and seven horseshoe-shaped housing units, each two stories high, were spread out across the crest. They each displayed a big letter painted on the brickwork above the entrance.

  Goatsack pointed to the one marked D. “That’s where you’re going. Delta Unit. It’s pretty much a gladiator school, so get ready to rumble. I’ll be shocked if somebody doesn’t try to put you through the paces before lockdown.”

  “What time’s lockdown?” Kane figured he might as well glean whatever information he could.

  “Twenty-two hundred hours,” Goatsack replied. “Hope you understand military time, ‘cause that’s all we use around here.”

  Kane turned his head and looked at him. “I was a Marine.”

  “For real? I served in the Navy, so I gave you Marine dogs a few rides in my time. What’d you do in the Corps?”

  “Recon.”

  Goatsack seemed genuinely surprised. “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “No wonder you tore that bar apart with your bare hands.” Goatsack gave him a look that was almost—but not quite—respectful. “How the hell did you end up in this sewer, Marine?”

  Kane stared at him hard. “Dunkirk killed that girl and framed me for it. But I think you already know that.”

  Goatsack nodded. “Yeah, that sucks. The good news for me is that it only sucks for you.”

  “I’ll make you a deal. Get me out of here, and I won’t kill you when the time comes.”

  Goatsack’s eyes narrowed to glittering slits, like moonlight on a switchblade. “Just who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Marine?”

  “If you had any idea who the hell you’re talking to,” Kane replied, “you’d take that deal.”

  “Yeah? Why don’t you enlighten me on who I’m talking to, tough guy?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not somebody you want to fuck with.”

  Goatsack laughed. “Buddy, by tomorrow morning, you’re gonna be down at medical with both your arms broken, your kneecaps smashed, and your ass looking like a subway tunnel. We’ll see if you’re still talking tough-guy shit then.” He pointed up the hill. “Delta Unit. Get moving.”

  As Kane moved past the man, he said, “Remember, I gave you a chance to do the right thing.”

  “I stopped giving a crap about the right thing a long time ago.” Goatsack fired off a mockin
g little salute. “See you around, Marine.” He went back into R&D and locked the door behind him.

  As Kane made his way across the compound, he felt unseen eyes watching him, probably from the narrow, steel-barred windows in the housing units. He was the new fish on the yard, and the other prisoners would study him, eyeball him, watch to see what he was made of. Any sign of weakness, any sign of fear, and they would pounce on him like wolves taking down vulnerable prey.

  He entered the guard shack, and the two compound officers motioned for him to go through a metal detector. He came out the other side without setting off the alarm.

  One of the officers waved him over and made a spinning motion with his finger. “Turn around, convict. I’m gonna pat you down.”

  “Why? I cleared the metal detector.”

  “Because I goddamn said so,” the officer snapped. “You’ll get your admission and orientation speech tomorrow, but one thing you should know right now—you can be pat-searched by any staff member at any time. Refuse, and we’ll drag your sorry ass into the Hole.”

  Kane didn’t ask what “the Hole” was. Figured he already had a pretty good idea.

  He turned around, put his hands on the wall, and let the officer pat him down, basically the prison version of a frisk. He knew this was just the correctional officers asserting their dominance, letting him know the pecking order. He thought about telling them that he already knew they weren’t the alphas around here, that Nazareno ruled the prison, not them.

  In the end, that would only piss them off, so he just held his tongue and let the officer pat down nearly every square inch of his body. Any more thorough, and he would have been giving Kane a hand job.

  When he was done, the officer gave him a little shove—another classic dominance-asserting move—and pointed at the exit. “Out that door and straight up the hill to your unit. Check in with the officer when you get there.”

  Kane nodded. “Thanks for the massage.”

  “Careful, convict. A smart-ass mouth will get you all kinds of unwelcome attention around here.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Get moving.”

  As he trudged up the hill, Kane again felt unseen stares prickling the hair on the back of his neck. He heard a few muffled shouts, mostly various prison-approved greetings.

  “Eat dick, new fish!”

  “You ain’t in fucking Kansas anymore, Dorothy!”

  “Goddamn, you a goliath!”

  “Merry fucking Christmas, bitch!”

  More disturbing were the catcalls, wolf-whistles, and bunk-share invitations.

  He ignored them all, but the volume cranked up to ear-bleed decibels when he entered the unit. Over a hundred inmates milled about in the common area, sat at the tables bolted to the floor, or draped themselves over the railings on the upper tiers, and it seemed like every damn one of them started shouting at him the second he walked through the door.

  It was a cacophony of human noise, an aural assault on the ears. Kane figured this must be what the dormitories of Hell sounded like.

  A portly prison guard stepped out of an office to Kane’s right and shouted, “SHUT UP!” at the top of his lungs.

  The bedlam didn’t disappear completely, but the decibels dropped to a more acceptable level.

  The guard turned to Kane. His name tag read D. Simpson. “Who the hell are you?”

  “John Kane.”

  “Don’t care about your first name, Kane, because we ain’t gonna get that familiar.”

  Kane shrugged. “Fair enough. What do I call you?”

  “Sir or Officer will do just fine.”

  “Got a cell for me?”

  Simpson pointed at a cell marked “101” in the left-hand corner of the unit. “Got an open bunk in one-oh-one over there. It’s a four-man cell, so you’ll be sleeping with three other guys.” He sniggered. “In more ways than one, most likely.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say.” Simpson waved him toward the cell. “Good luck, and welcome to Black Bog.”

  “Pillow and blanket?”

  “They’re supposed to be on the bunk, but I’m sure one of your cellies has helped himself to them by now.” Simpson shrugged. “Work it out amongst yourselves.”

  “I’m not sure you want me to do that.”

  Simpson let out an exasperated sigh. “Kane, this is Delta Unit, a.k.a. gladiator school. If there’s only one fight per day in here, we call that a slow day. You need to throw down to get yourself some bedding, ain’t nobody gonna bat an eye, and that includes me.” He waved dismissively. “Now piss off, and may the best man win.”

  Cell 101 was vacant when Kane walked in. Simple enough setup: Two bunks, upper and lower, to his left, two more straight in front of him. A tiny desk attached to the wall beneath a bulletin board. Four lockers wedged between the bunks. A stainless steel toilet and a porcelain sink. The cinderblock walls were decorated with an eclectic assortment of Catholic iconography, family photos, and pornographic pictures.

  Home sweet home, Kane thought grimly.

  The upper bunk to his left was empty. No pillow, no blanket, not even a mattress. Just a vacant slab of metal with graffiti etched in the paint, mostly gang symbols. He sighed and slung his bag onto the bunk.

  The cell door opened, and three men crowded in. One remained in the doorway while the other two bracketed Kane. They were all Hispanic and well-muscled. The pair bracing Kane sported tattoos identifying them as members of the violent MS-13 gang. Kane couldn’t see any weapons, but he had no doubt all three carried some sort of blade.

  The guy to Kane’s left wore a red headband around his clean-shaven skull. “Would you look at this mierda?” he growled. “They put a white boy in our cell.”

  “Yeah,” his comrade replied. “Big bastardo, too.” Three tattooed teardrops decorated the skin next to his eye. Kane knew that symbolized he had killed three people. Probably planning on getting a fourth tattoo tomorrow.

  Too bad Kane had other plans.

  “Yeah, he’s too grande,” Headband said. His hand moved fast, reaching behind him to produce a survival knife, point honed to wicked sharpness, with a serrated spine. It was not the kind of blade usually found in prison, further proof of just how lawless Black Bog had become under Nazareno’s rule. Tattoo followed suit, lifting his shirt to pull a similar-looking knife from his waistband.

  “I say we cut a few inches off him so he’ll fit on the bunk better,” Headband continued, staring into Kane’s eyes with a hard, predatory look that probably scared the hell out of the average new fish. “What do you say, cabron?”

  Kane felt the pre-combat adrenalin surge through his system but kept it masked. No point in letting these boys know he was ready for a fight. Play it cool, lull them into thinking they had him outmatched, and only go hardcore at the last possible second, if —or more likely when—it became necessary.

  Kane said, “I’ve got no beef with you boys. Just hook me up with a mattress, pillow, and blanket, and I’ll be good.”

  “Not the way it works around here, cocksucker.”

  “Name’s Kane, not ‘cocksucker.’”

  “Your name is gonna be dog shit, puta, if you don’t shut the hell up and listen.”

  “I’m listening,” Kane said. “But so far, you aren’t saying much worth hearing.”

  Headband snarled, “Fuck you, cabron. Time to cut you down to size.”

  They rushed forward in tandem, stabbing in synchronicity, expecting an easy target.

  Kane was anything but easy.

  And these boys were pure amateur hour.

  He spun to the left. Headband’s strike missed badly, leaving his arm overextended. Kane grabbed the inmate’s wrist with his right hand and pulled him even further off balance. He then slammed the heel of his palm against Headband’s elbow, snapping the arm with a grotesque crunch.

  Headband had just started to howl in pain when Kane stomped down on the side of the Mexican’s kn
ee. Another sickening snap as bone broke, and Headband sank to the floor. Kane let go of his wrist as he fell and sledgehammered an uppercut into the man’s falling chin, shattering his lower jaw. Headband flopped on the floor, knocked clean out. After he woke up, he would be drinking from a straw for weeks to come.

  Due to the close confines of the cell, Tattoo had difficulty reaching Kane with his knife while the warrior disassembled his shanking partner. After Headband went down in a broken-boned sprawl, Tattoo hurdled his unconscious body, survival knife slashing toward Kane’s neck.

  Kane dodged, and the blade scraped the cement wall behind him. He chopped a punch into Tattoo’s exposed ribs, which sent the man spinning sideways. The inmate stumbled over the toilet but caught himself quickly.

  Kane glanced at the guy in the doorway. He just stood there with his arms crossed, watching the fight.

  If the big bastard wanted to sit this one out, Kane wasn’t going to complain.

  He reached down and snatched up the knife that had fallen from Headband’s limp hand.

  Tattoo crouched, tossing his blade from hand to hand. That might look cool in the movies, but it was absolutely stupid in an actual knife fight.

  “Time for you to bleed,” Tattoo growled.

  “Walk away before I stick this knife through your balls,” Kane said.

  “That’s my amigo you just fucked up, puta. You need to pay for that.”

  “Come on over here, and you can get fucked up too. We’ll call it a two-for-one deal.”

  Tattoo danced forward with the blade gripped in his right hand. He moved cautiously, but still possessed the aura of a man accustomed to having the upper hand. A man who killed at will. Too much time near the top of the prison’s pecking order had made him arrogant.

  Without warning, Kane exploded into motion, lunging forward. He used his left hand to knock Tattoo’s knife to the side, pinning it against the wall. With his right, he slashed his own blade toward Tattoo’s face, going for the eyes. This was a prison brawl, not a gentlemen’s duel.